Purple light illuminated White Snow's tear-streaked face.
The light spilled from the Purple Cauldron Fragment on her Storage Ring. It was no longer gently warm as before, but scorching hot, as though it would melt straight through her claw. Yet White Snow did not let go. She clenched it even tighter. Her nails dug into her flesh, drawing blood, but she felt no pain.
"Master..."
Her voice trembled, so broken that she sounded nothing like the swaggering girl who called herself "Grandpa White Snow."
The purple light grew brighter and brighter, gathering into a hazy human figure before her. The familiar outline made her heart ache... a Qing Busan washed almost white, hands with thick knuckles, and the Purple Small Cauldron that always hung at his waist.
"White Snow..."
The voice came in fragments, as though from somewhere far, far away, crossing countless mountains and rivers and layer upon layer of spatial barriers. Every word carried a crackle like electrical static, but she knew that accent all too well: a slow country drawl, its final notes always sinking low.
"Master!" White Snow suddenly threw herself forward, but her claws passed through the phantom and caught nothing. She fell to the ground in a cloud of dust, then immediately scrambled back up, her golden eyes fixed on the purple figure. "It's you, right? Don't scare me... don't go..."
"I'm here..."
The purple figure wavered, and his voice became a little clearer. A hand formed entirely of purple light slowly rose and reached toward White Snow's head. She knew she could not touch it, but she leaned her head toward it anyway.
"Don't be afraid... I've been here all along..."
White Snow's tears finally burst their banks. Great drops rolled from her golden eyes and struck the dark red ground, splashing up